Snow
by Oboeist3
Summary: From an ugly sweater Christmas party to church bells and vows, this is the story of how two northern nations found each other and fell in love. My submission for the RusCan Secret Santa on Tumblr! Beware, tooth rotting fluff up ahead. Please R&R and DFTBA!


Snow. For some it was soft, like angel's breath chilling their cheeks as they ran, sledded down hills and made snow angels and curled up next to a fire after, watched it fall ever lazily out their window. For them, it was content, peaceful. But it wasn't like that for everyone. It wasn't like that for him.

For Ivan, snow was a blade, and icy weapon that cut at him year after year. Harsh. Unforgiving. It was always red, crimson red that spread out in terrifying patterns of gravity For him, snow was made from the frozen tears of his people, his children. Snow was where General Winter lived, snow was where the enemies hid. And it was constant, neverending. A nightmare, forever.

It was imaginable then that he wasn't much for holiday cheer. Most people in his home didn't even celebrate Christmas, and even New Years had lost its luster over the deteriorating days. When the others lived with him, it wasn't so bad, and he could ignore the screams and enjoy himself for one day, bury himself in joy instead of the ever present vodka bottles all throughout the house. But they were gone now. They left him.

He still went to the parties of course, pretended he was happy under that fake smile, that ever-present mask he wore. Let himself get piss drunk and wake up with little recollection of the day's events, perhaps spare a short laugh for whatever embarrassing pictures came out of that night. But it never reached that deep down, never tied itself to him in the way those memories should. At least, until he met Matvey.

It was at one of those aforementioned parties, wearing some garish and itchy holiday sweater and sipping at the strange mix of cheap alcohol, milk, and eggs they called eggnog, seeking some reprieve from the emptiness. Nations were scattered throughout the room in mixed states of sobriety, Arthur already laughing and regaling how he used to be great, Vash cautiously lurking near the free food while Lilly desperately tried to get him to join in the fun. He doubted she would succeed.

He himself was not much better on the socialization front, he just felt too tired to bother this time around, and it was a suitably regular happenstance, he had no Lilly to try and drag him out of it. So he just stood there, woefully sober and too tired to try and fix that fact. He shifted back and forth on his feet, tapping it every once in a while to some poppy rendition of Christmas tunes pumped out of Alfred's speakers, each second too long in his catacomb mind.

Eventually he managed to shift enough out of his funk to move towards the plentiful supply of decent alcohol, snatching up something at random, probably rum, and took a big swig. Though it burned the back of his throat, he was so used to it he didn't much care. He was stumbling his way back to his corner of isolation when he ran into another nation underfoot, dropping his precious alcohol with a resounding crash.

Now had this been a normal nation he might have glared, made a loose threat that left them scattering, and returned for some other poison to go straight to his liver. But it wasn't just anyone. No, he'd had the misfortune of running into the most apologetic and polite nation on this side of the Prime Meridian, and he started doing what he did most. Worrying frantically.

"Oh mon dieu! Are you alright? I'm so very sorry for running into you!" he said, scrambling to do the right thing, which in his mind, seemed to equate to picking up all those infinitesimal glass shards scattered across the floor and his boots.

"I am fine." he stated, a lie if ever there was one, standing like a wall and making no move to help him. After all, it was his fault he'd dropped it in the first place. Instead of mourning the loss of the alcohol, (which while potent had been rather shitty), he decided to focus on identifying the man before him.

He was tall, he could tell, even bending over, with shoulder length light blonde hair and a standoff curl that bobbed with his every movement. He was dressed in similarly garrish apparel, as required by their impulsive host, though he had to admit his suited him better, reds and greens standing out against the paleness of his skin. After a while he managed to catch sight of his gaze, a dark blue that bordered on violet, though paler than his own, The most startling fact about them was that they shown no fear, only a genuine apology.

People were never not scared of Ivan, whether they knew of his nation status or not, as he was tall and carried an aura of perpetual dread about him, within good reason, perhaps. But that did not change the fact that it was off putting, and when they weren't running away from him they were cowering, begging them not to hurt him. The change was unsettling, to say the least. Even more so when he stood up and seemed to resemble the man he currently hated the most, Amerika, but it was too kind of an action to be done by his enemy, and those eyes were too dark, like frozen glass.

"I think I've got all the pieces now. I'll go throw them away. Are you sure you're alright Ivan?" he asked, so he knew him, he wasn't one of those new fangled nations were comrade Yugoslavia used to be or in Latin America, (he could never keep track of them.)

"Da. It's the alcohol, that is all." he claimed with a face splitting smile, too wide to be genuine. And then suddenly, it all fell into place. "Ah! Comrade Matvey, isn't it?" he said, his fellow hockey enthusiast, ally on the second World War, brother of his worst enemy, yes he knew him.

He seemed surprised to be recognized but recovered quickly. "Yes, that's me." he said softly, but his voice was always so soft. His whole existence seemed tainted with a sense of timidity, like a little chickadee that had flown into a window and stood dazed and confused. He'd recalled thinking it cute a few times, and indeed right now it came back stronger than ever, but he blamed the alcohol.

"Enjoying the party?" asked the Canadian, once he had returned from throwing away the glass, snapping him out of his haze.

"I'm not sure. Your brother is hosting it, and Fredka has an... odd taste." he said, looking around at all the fluorescent lights and harsh colors, not to mention the fact the only way to get in was to wear the unappealing fuzzy sweater he was stuck in. He didn't like it all.

"Yea. Alfred always been a bit loud in everything he does. Still, it does bring nations together somewhat civilly. I think we both agree that is a miracle." he said with a slight chuckle, and Ivan unconsciously noted it was nicer than his brother's, not so loud and ear splitting.

"Da. The copious amounts of free alcohol might be a factor though, do you not think?" Hell that was one of the main reasons he came. The other being he wanted to piss off Amerika. He was so certain he wouldn't wear a garish, ugly, Christmas sweater. Well he got the most cringeworthy and he looked great in it.

"Well... I try not to think of that." he admitted with a sigh, taking a sip of his own non alcoholic beverage as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. "I mean, it gets pretty lonely up at my home. All ice and snow and wilderness. It's kind of nice to have an excuse to meet with other people, you know? Not that they notice me. But a nation can try, eh?" he said with a wistful sigh, and Ivan felt oddly sympathetic to his plight.

"I understand. Being alone is never fun. Especially this time of year." he said, the words falling out before he could process them. He blinked afterwards, not sure where they had come from. The man across from him seemed similarly affected, but his surprise melted into a soft smile Ivan could only stare at.

"Thank you." he said, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks, or at least, Ivan thought so. It was hard to tell in the mixed light. Unaware to him, there was a similar smattering of red on his own face. They stood there a moment, not sure where to go from there, and Ivan contemplated leaving again, until a nervous voice piped up.

"We could leave this over-poppy party, if you'd like. I have a place nearby, and there's a hockey game on tonight. You like hockey, right?" he asked, not looking him in the eye. It only took Ivan a moment of contemplation before he asked the question he later noted changed his life.

"Do you have vodka?"

"Oui. Not that strong, but-"

"We must be going then, da?" he questioned, dragging him by his arm. So it began.

* * *

It was a snowball of a relationship after that, one visit became two and then four and so on, personal items started drifting into the other's houses, little gifts and knick knacks from Christmases and birthdays started cluttering the desks. The alcohol that so littered Ivan's home grew less and less, pictures of memories started framing the walls, and when the bad days came he'd look at them and feel better.

Awkward, shy flirting and compliments started slipping into their every conversation, and more and more of their time was spent wondering if they were or should be just friends. Romantic and sexual tension built up until even Alfred noticed, and promptly started threatening Ivan at every opportunity, trying to wedge himself in the cracks and get the Commie bastard away from his brother. But it didn't work.

One Valentine's day, the Russian manned up the courage to confess, and arrived at the Canadian's door with a bouquet of roses, a nice suit, and a clumsy "je t'aime" on his lips. He didn't make it past the je before he was pulled into a deep kiss and some other things Matvey wouldn't let him talk about in public.

A semi-awkward friendship flowed into a semi-awkward relationship, and it was hard to manage sometimes, what with Alfred doing everything in his power to drive them apart and the sheer distance between them. But they did manage, and every day Ivan started feeling like his life was more and more worth living, between the occasional scattered nights and the overly emoted texts on his phone, life was good.

Years passed by so quickly it seemed, and every day the part of his mind devoted to Matvey grew larger, storing all the different ways he laughed, the way his hands curled and how his body flowed as he walked like some human liquid. Remembering every little endearment in French and English and broken Russian, every kiss on his cheek or his lips or the nose he hated but the Canadian seemed to love. Every night Ivan left him gasping and begging, or when he was daring and maybe a little drunk, the other way round.

Of course, there were fights here and there, nights spent on the couch, days they wouldn't even look at each other, but more often than not one would apologize and the rest of that night would be spent on more fruitful activities.

He'd leave himself exposed to those eyes he'd learned to trust, let him see every scar and broken piece of him, every inch of a battered body that had seen too much and a heart that was so deeply cracked it seemed always ready to shatter. He'd look so sad and it made Ivan want to hide because that was all he ever seemed to give to people, but then he'd apologize for every one that wasn't his fault, kiss them and love them as much as the rest of the Russian, and every time the knife wound of his affections would grow more but he didn't care. This pain was worth it.

And when they were done and spent, Ivan would gather him up in his arms and say how he loved him so much, poetry spouted from his lips that neither really remembered come morning, words lost to the dark and their pounding hearts. But they didn't need to know the words to measure their worth.

* * *

It was on a nondescript winter day that he asked him, cuddled up on the couch and half asleep, the words tumbling out like an acrobat with none of the grace. "We should get married." Mathew didn't even hesitate before replying. "Maybe we should." He blinked up Ivan with those wide eyes and the most gentle smile he'd ever seen.

"What about your brother?"

"He doesn't control my life."

"Your father?"

"Please. Francis will be thrilled. It's been years since he got to plan something like this."

"What about a ring? I haven't even asked you properly."

"Well then, you better go get one, eh?" he said with a smirk and a wink, and his own face broke out in the widest, truest, most amazing grin he'd ever had.

"Da. I guess I'd better. Wait for me?"

"Forever and ever, dorogaya."

"You can't speak Russian, you know."

"Nor you French, but I don't stop you."

He laughed, because it was just so him, that passive aggressive teasing, that quiet bravery he wished more could see and yet wanted to hoard all to himself. "I'm so in love with you." he said, kissing him chastly and softly.

"Mmm. You better be, Ivan Williams."

"I was thinking Matthew Braginsky."

"Don't push it."

He chuckled and kissed him again before letting it drop for the moment, simply happy in holding him tightly, warm and soft.

He loved these nights the most, more even than the passion and bed creaking, because he'd done that before, done relationships like that. But he'd never had someone who was willing to let him hold them, never had someone who just hearing their name made him smile. He'd never fallen in love so deeply that he'd put weight on the chance for heartbreak and let it pile up until the break was inevitable but was still ok. But he was worth it, worth everything to him.

* * *

It was a summer wedding at Matvey's place, all sunflowers and roses, and they'd both worn suits, (even if Ivan tried to convince his fiancé otherwise), and he'd never been more happy. The rings were simple gold things, and the vows so sappy several nations visibly fake gagged, but neither much care. It wasn't for them.

His sisters, even Natalya, were all in tears, Katayasha hugging him tightly and wishing them luck and prosperity in their endeavours. Natalya just muttered about how he was happy big brother had found someone to marry, and Ivan smiled and hugged her tightly as well, because at the end of the day, they were family.

Even Alfred was suitably non-threatening, at least when Matthew was within earshot, and actually wished him luck once, coupled with the usual death threat if he ever hurt him. But he wouldn't. He didn't even think he could anymore. It was stereotypically, sickeningly sweet, from the first moment to the last, but that suited the hopeless romantics just fine.

The honeymoon, they decided upon, had to be somewhere warm, and a certain island state of Amerika's was quite happy to let them have some peace and quiet, provided they never told her father. The days were spent on beaches and in the water, spending away money at tourist traps, filling up cameras with enough pictures to last quite a few lifetimes, and they were both fine with that.

Married life wasn't really much different than being boyfriends after that though, besides the amazing fact that Ivan could introduce him as his husband, (though never his wife, which made him a bit sad.) But the promise and love in the simple band on his finger was worth a lot, and he would find himself messing with it often, twirling it around his fingers as if that would connect them more across the many miles. Matthew did the same thing.

One night, after so long of being together, the years blurred into obscurity, they were at one of Ivan's homes, snuggled up on the couch, and Ivan turned to look out the window.

"Ah, it is snowing." he commented, and Matthew turned to look as well.

"Does it ever stop?" he said, shaking his head, and Ivan chuckled.

"Not often, but it's different now." he said, shifting his arms to hold him and little tighter, and he tilted his head at him curiously, like an owl. It was adorable of course.

"Pochemu?" he asked, his Russian much better now, though it retained that strange accent he found so very cute.

"Because I'm with you." he said simply, and he didn't have to look to know he'd be blushing.

"You're a sap." huffed the Canadian.

"You love me for it."

"No, I love you all the time."

"But especially for being a sap?"

"...Maybe."

He took this as a victory and kissed him softly, the lips he'd memorized just as wonderful as the first time, and was kissed back lazily, sleepily. Sure enough, a few minutes later and he was snoring, mouth slightly open. He just kissed his forehead and looked again out the window, reflecting on how he'd gotten so lucky.


End file.
